


Mattress

by WithCadence



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, M/M, implied PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 23:13:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1567493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithCadence/pseuds/WithCadence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve finds a way to help Bucky's insomnia when Bucky comes to stay with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mattress

Steve wakes to the sound of static. A faint, gray glow seeps underneath his bedroom door. He slips out of bed and steps gingerly across the floor so as to not make any noise. He opens the door as quietly as he can, one hand clenched tightly around the doorknob, the other clenched into a fist – just in case. Bucky sits upright on the edge of the couch, remote in hand, clicking the “channel” button rhythmically to no avail. Steve watches from the doorway of his bedroom, fist uncurling.

A few moments pass. Both are aware of the others presence but no words are exchanged until Steve clears his throat.

“You have to change the source.” He nods towards the TV. Bucky glances down at the remote. “Right now it’s on HDMI 3, which is hooked up to my broken DVD player. Cable is on HDMI 2.”

Bucky’s thumb falls off the remote. His hand goes limp and the remote points towards the floor. He stares straight ahead. “I don’t know what any of those words mean.” His voice is stale. Monotonous. More so than usual. Steve exhales.

“Can’t sleep?” He walks over to Bucky, takes the remote from his hands, and turns the TV off. Bucky still does not look up. It takes him a moment to reply.

“No.” He reaches up, rubs the side of his jaw. “Can’t get comfortable.”

“Sorry about that.” Steve eyes the poorly purchased rock-solid couch Bucky is sitting on, pillow at one end, knitted blanket in a heap at the other. “I thought you’d find it more comfortable.” He shrugs, gesturing to his bedroom with a jerk of his head. “Want to switch?”

“No.” Bucky’s voice is gravely and even in the dim light of the room, Steve can see his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands – the beginnings of a restless and panicked few hours.

Steve does not think twice about offering. Nor does he technically offer, since he knows Bucky will say no if it’s posed as a question. “Well come on then.” Steve knows Bucky. He knows what Bucky is trying to get at even if Bucky himself does not. He grabs the pillow. “It’s warmer in my room.”

Bucky’s eyes dart to the pillow in Steve’s hand, then up at Steve’s face. “What?”

“You heard me.” He raises an eyebrow. “I’m tired, let’s go. Grab your blanket if you want it.”

Bucky hesitates only for a moment before grabbing his blanket and standing, his movements stiff and slow. He follows Steve into the bedroom, walking around to the opposite side of the bed. Steve sits down, sliding into the indentation where he has slept every night. It’s still warm. He tosses the pillow next to him and kicks the covers into a comfortable position.

Bucky stands frozen, staring at the bed, unblinking. His hair falls in front of his face, his arms rest tense at his sides.

“Come on, Buck, I don’t bite.” He jokes. Bucky’s eyes narrow slightly at the uncomfortable familiarity of the nickname. The familiarity of it all.

“We were ten.” He says, voice quiet. Hoarse. His eyebrows furrow at the covers in front of him. His distressed face betrays the calm demeanor of his body. Steve looks up at him but Bucky still refuses to meet his gaze.

“That’s right.” Steve’s voice is calm, low. His words offer reassurance. Something for Bucky to cling to. “Do you remember anything else?”

His nod is barely visible, though his chest rises up and down more rapidly than it had just moments ago. “You couldn’t sleep on the floor because it was colder and your asthma acted up. I think. Or you were scared?” Bucky’s voice grew louder with every word, then fell to a hushed whisper. “You were so small.”

“Yeah, I was.” The corner of Steve’s lip twitched upwards into a half-smile. “And you had a horrible haircut. Funny how times change.” He thinks he sees the ghost of a smile on Bucky’s face, but soon it is replaced with the hard etchings of a frown.

“That’s…” Bucky begins to inhale sharply through his nose. “That’s it. That’s all. I don’t remember anything else.” His words grow more rapid until his tongue begins to trip over itself and he stumbles back into what feels comfortable. “Я не помню. Я не могу вспомнить. Почему я не могу вспомнить. Стив, почему-”

“Hey hey hey hey.” Steve keeps his voice constant. He reaches out, palm facing Bucky. “Calm down. Calm down. It’s okay. You don’t need to remember anything else.”

Bucky’s eyes are screwed shut. He breathes heavily now, desperately trying to catch his breath. Steve sounds far away. “Get in bed. We’ll work more on this tomorrow. Right now it doesn’t matter. You just need to sleep.” Bucky complies, getting into the bed and sliding underneath the covers without thinking about what he was doing. When he leans his head back onto the pillow he feels his body sink a few inches down into the mattress. He blinks in surprise at the alien feeling, his breaths become less desperate and more shallow.

“You doing okay?” Steve’s voice finds him in the darkness. He nods. Stares at the ceiling, tries to make out shapes. Focuses on the coolness of the mattress and the lingering of the present. Ignores the flashes behind his eyelids, which are suddenly eager to close.

A minute or two of silence passes. The two lie awake together, staring at the ceiling, listening to each other breathe. Bucky is beginning to drift and for the first time since he can remember every muscle in his body feels loose. Relaxed.

“We were ten.” Steve’s voice was barely above a whisper. “And I got scared and wanted to go home. And I started to cry, so you let me sleep in your bed.” Bucky closed his eyes. The flashes had stopped. Steve’s voice washed over him.

“You promised me that you weren’t gonna let me be scared. That you’d protect me. And I’ll be damned if I’m not going to do the same for you.” Steve turned his head on his pillow to look towards Bucky, whose eyes were now closed, mouth slightly agape. Steve sighs. “ ‘Night, Buck.”

Morning comes suddenly. At least to Steve it does. The presence of the sun always startles him somehow despite the fact that he had been half-awake for hours, unable to get entirely comfortable. He frowns at the light, slightly annoyed that its presence means he will no longer be able to attempt a deeper state of sleep. 

He yawns, and exits the bedroom, leaving Bucky to sleep. He puts on a pot of coffee, more for the taste than the energy, and sits down with his laptop – something that finally feels comfortable to him. He thinks for a moment about showing Bucky later. Maybe they’d go out and get him a phone. 

Steve reads through every single front page article on 4 different news sites, occupying himself and his time, waiting for Bucky to wake up. Two, three hours pass, and just when the preposterous thought of maybe starting a twitter account passes does Steve close his computer. He walks gingerly into the living room, craning his neck to look through the bedroom door. Bucky lies on his stomach, hair splayed across his face, back rising and falling slowly. Steve glances at the clock. Eleven. He makes food, cleans his kitchen and living room. Twelve. He does some brief online research on the recovery of memories in amnesiac patients. One. Bucky wakes up. Stumbles into the living room. Steve looks up from his computer and smiles.

“Morning. How’d you sleep?”

Bucky squints at him, slumber still thinly shrouding his vision. “Well.” He nods. “Really well.” Maybe he’s imagining it, but Steve thinks his voice sounds a bit higher. A slow return to normal.

“That’s good.” Steve nods. “Coffee?”

“Please.” 

Steve puts on another pot, sets out a mug, does not point Bucky in the direction of the cream or the sugar because he knows he likes it black. He is beginning to offer suggestions for breakfast – or, more appropriately, lunch – when his phone rings. He fishes it out of his pocket, paces into the living room.

“Hello?”

“Missed you this morning.”

“Oh I’m sure you did.”

“I’ve got 6 more miles on you now. Getting faster. You best keep up.”

“I think I’ll be okay.” Steve laughed. “What’s up, Sam?” 

“You wanna go get lunch later? I’m free the rest of the day.” 

“Uh, maybe, yeah?” Steve shrugged.

“Uh – maybe – yeah.” Sam mocked him in a deep voice. “Come on man! I’m gonna take you shopping too. I got this new mattress yesterday – solid as a rock, and I slept like a baby. You gotta get rid of that cloud of yours.”

Steve glances to the kitchen. Bucky is seated in the chair nearest the window, mug gripped in both hands. The early afternoon falls onto his left arm and it gleams in the sunlight. He stares out the widow, eyes darting from tree to tree, car to car. Taking everything in. His hair tucked behind his ears, the dark under his eyes slightly less opaque. For the first time in days, the heaviness and confusion are absent on Bucky’s face. 

“Actually,” Steve sighs. “I think I’m gonna keep it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this very very very quickly, in about 30 minutes, based on a headcanon I saw on someone’s blog. I have not edited this yet. I just need to post it now or else I never will. Not really sure how I feel about how I wrote this. CC obviously welcome. :)


End file.
